James gave him the contemptuous look he would give a performing monkey. ‘Don’t be so naive, Mr Stoker,’ he chided him. ‘What our host is trying to tell us is that Mr Frost didn’t write these novels. Somehow he stole them from us before we published them.’
‘Precisely, Mr James,’ the time traveller affirmed.
‘But how will he stop us suing him?’ the Irishman persisted.
Tm sure you don’t need me to tell you that, Mr Stoker,’ replied Rhys.
Wells, who had managed to thrust aside his despair and take an interest in the conversation again, was suddenly struck by a ghastly thought. ‘If I’m not mistaken, what Mr Rhys is trying to tell us,’ he said, with the aim of dispelling the fog the others were in, ‘is that the best way to silence a person is by killing him.’
‘By killing him?’ declared Stoker, horrified. ‘Are you saying this fellow Frost is going to steal our works and then . . . kill us?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mr Stoker,’ Rhys confirmed, accompanying his words with a solemn nod. ‘When, after arriving in your time, I came across the news item about a mysterious fellow named Melvyn Frost, who had published these novels, I hastened to learn what had become of you, their real authors. And I’m sorry to have to tell you this, gentlemen, but all three of you are going to die next month. You, Mr Wells, will break your neck in a cycling accident. You, Mr Stoker, will fall down the stairs of your theatre. And you, Mr James, will suffer a heart attack in your own home, although, needless to say, your death, like those of your colleagues, will also be murder. I don’t know whether Frost plans to carry out the deeds himself or to hire someone else, although judging from his frail physique, I would incline towards the latter.
‘In fact, Frost is a typical instance of a time traveller who, afraid to return to his own time, chooses a particular period in the past in which to settle down and build a new life. All perfectly understandable and legitimate. The problem arises because the majority of these time exiles consider earning a living in the traditional sense – that is to say, by the sweat of their brow – which is utterly absurd when their knowledge of the future could make them rich. Most give themselves away when they modify the past in order to implement their money-making schemes, like this fellow Frost. Otherwise it would be impossible for us to trace them.
‘But I didn’t bring you here to torment you with tales of your imminent demise, gentlemen, rather to try to prevent it happening.’
‘Can you do that?’ Stoker asked, suddenly hopeful.
‘Not only can I, but it is my duty, for your deaths represent a significant change to the century I have been assigned to protect,’ replied Rhys. ‘My sole aim is to help you, gentlemen. I hope I’ve convinced you of that. And that includes you, Mr Wells.’
Wells gave a start. How did Rhys know he had come to the meeting filled with misgivings? He found the answer when he followed the direction in which the traveller and his two henchmen were looking. All three were staring at his left shoe, where the knife he had strapped to his back was peeping out. It seemed the knot he had tied had been a little loose. Shamefaced, Wells picked up the knife and slipped it into his coat pocket, while James shook his head disapprovingly.
‘All of you,’ the traveller went on, attaching no further importance to the matter, ‘will live for many more years in your original universe, and will continue delighting your faithful readers, of whom I consider myself one, with many more novels. Forgive me, though, if I refrain from telling you any details about your future. It is so that once we have resolved this small matter you will continue to act naturally. In fact, I ought to have intervened without revealing myself to you, but this fellow Frost is devilishly clever and will eliminate you so stealthily that the information I need to prevent your deaths, such as the exact time you were pushed down the stairs, Mr Stoker, will not appear in the newspapers. I only know the days on which you will suffer your respective accidents, and in your case, Mr James, I won’t even know that because no one will notice you are dead until a neighbour discovers your body’
James nodded ruefully, perhaps aware for the first time of his entrenched loneliness, which would make his death a silent act, unseen by the world.
‘Let us say that bringing you here was a desperate measure, gentlemen, for I could think of no other way to prevent your deaths than by asking for your co-operation, which I feel sure will be forthcoming.’
‘Naturally’ said Stoker, hastily, apparently physically ill at the thought he could be dead within a few days. ‘What do we have to do?’
‘Oh, it’s quite simple,’ said Rhys. ‘Providing this fellow Frost cannot find your manuscripts, he won’t be able to kill you. I therefore suggest you bring them to me at the first opportunity. Tomorrow, if at all possible. This simple act will create another bifurcation in the time line, because Frost will not have killed you. Once I am in possession of the novels, I shall travel forward to the year 1899, and take another look at reality. Then I shall decide what to do next.’
‘I think it’s an excellent plan,’ said Stoker. ‘I shall bring you my manuscript tomorrow’
James agreed to do the same, and although Wells had the impression they were mere pawns in a game of chess between Rhys and this fellow Frost, he had no choice but to consent. He felt too disoriented by events to think of a better way than the one Rhys was proposing. And so, like the others, he agreed to bring his manuscript the next morning, although if Rhys finally apprehended Frost and unravelled the muddle of the future, it did not guarantee that he would be able to ride his bicycle in complete safety without first resolving the matter pending with Gilliam Murray. To do this he had no choice but to help Inspector Garrett catch Rhys, the very man who was trying to save his life.
***
But if there was a more difficult undertaking than capturing a time traveller, it was undoubtedly catching a cab in London in the early hours of the morning. James, Stoker and Wells spent almost an hour trawling the area around Berkeley Square without success. Only when they decided to walk towards Piccadilly, shivering with cold and cursing their luck, did they catch sight of a berlin. They started as it emerged from the thick fog that had settled over London, rolling along the street towards them almost solely thanks to the horse’s efforts, because the driver was half asleep on his box. It would have passed straight by them, like a visitation from the beyond, had the driver not finally noticed the red-headed giant blocking the street and waving his arms wildly.
After the cab came to a hasty halt, the three men spent what seemed like eternity trying to explain their itinerary to the driver: first he would take Stoker to his house, then drop James at his hotel, and finally leave London for Woking, where Wells lived. When the man signalled that he had understood the route by blinking a couple of times and grunting, the three men clambered into the carriage and flopped on to the seats, like castaways reaching shore after days in a lifeboat.
Wells longed for some peace and quiet so that he could reflect on the events of the past few hours, but when Stoker and James launched into a discussion about their respective novels, he realised he would have to wait a little
